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I Never Signed Up For This

OrchidsDear Ovaries,

We need to talk.  Seriously.

We’ve been on a first name basis for what – 46 years?  Okay, I guess you can effectively argue that I was completely unaware of your existence for the first ten years of my life, at which point you went into overdrive:  I was not only the first girl in my class to start her period, but the first to need a bra.  And when I say I needed to wear one, I needed to wear one – do you think we could have stopped at a reasonable cup size?  Like maybe a D?

I must confess you performed flawlessly once we got past the teenage years and the accompaning screaming meemies; I’m assuming the years between 12 and 17 were sort of like having your learners permit, or perhaps on-the-job training.  At any rate, I can only tell you how grateful I am for your faultless functioning once you got into the groove, for I could set my calendar by you.  In fact, you’ve worked a little too well – and I’ve got the children to prove it.

My three little indiscretions aside, I didn’t think much about you for the better part of 40 years.  Other than that little week-long inconvenience you sent my way every 28 days, I had no complaints – no surprises, no PMS even.  All was well in my little womanly world.


Until about 2 years ago, when things started to gradually – nay, insidiously – get out of whack.  For some reason, that week-long little inconvenience was no longer guaranteed to be a week long – it could last anywhere from 2 to 14 days.  Not only that, I could no longer set my calendar by you, for the 28-day schedule seemed to go right out the window.  We’re all over the place now – what’s with that?  Shouldn’t I have least gotten a memo or something?  It didn’t have to be much, just a line or two stating, “We’re sorry, but your regularly scheduled menses will no longer be regular.  Be prepared to be driven crazy for the next ten years.”

Nor is that my only beef with you, Ovaries.  I mean, I’ve been fairly even tempered most of my life.  Well, I can lose it, but it takes a great deal to make me lose it.  Or it used to.  Is it really necessary to make me froth at the mouth and want to burn a person’s eyes out with a red-hot poker just for asking me, “What’s for dinner?”  Is a little sanity too much to ask?

And then there’s the whole hot flash thing.  You know, I don’t really mind suddenly being hit with the feeling I’m standing in front of an open iron-smelting forge periodically – really, I don’t – but do you think you could at least send one my way when it would actually do some good?  Like NOW, maybe, while it’s -10 F outside and I’m sitting here in a sheepskin-lined coat inside my very own house?  Hmmm?

Anyhoo, I just thought I ought to bring these things to your attention.  I’d appreciate it if you’d hop right on this and get your shit together – we’ve been together way too long for you to lie down on the job like this.  Now, if you don’t mind, I need to go have a discussion with the Sun about this Seasonal Affective Disorder thing.



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